


I Wish I Knew (How it Would Feel to be Free)

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Fic, Gen, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal loves, despite himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wish I Knew (How it Would Feel to be Free)

**Author's Note:**

> Neal POV, unrequited P/E/N. Kinda angsty. Spoilers up to 4.03. 
> 
> My first day of wrisomifu. I don't really know where this came from. :-)

"You said goodbye to everyone but me. Why?"

Falling for Peter is like an act of God, a hurricane or—no, it's more like a meteor crashing down on his head, flattening him right there on the tarmac. He should have seen it coming, a distant epiphany that's been hurtling toward him for months now, gathering momentum and power and fury with every case, every day they work together, every time Peter gives him that approving look or treats him as an equal. But Neal's good at ignoring the truth when it suits him, and it's not till that moment—hearing himself say, "You know why," and "You're the only one who could change my mind"—that he really gets the full force of it, ripping through him at a thousand miles an hour, tearing a hole in his heart. 

He walks away, because it's the only sane thing to do. Peter's a fed, he's married, and he's straight. He thinks he's Neal's mentor or his savior. He wants to change Neal, to turn him into some sanitized version of himself. And he would never want Neal, not in that way. 

Plus there's Kate. Neal still loves Kate. The ragged remains of his heart keep beating, just for her.

He turns back. "Peter—" _I'm not running from you; I'm running to her._ Well, it's almost true. But before he can get the words out, it's over. The meteor explodes. The world ends. A part of him billows and dies, and he honestly doesn't know if he'll survive the loss.

 

*

 

Months later, he's limping around, a heart full of shrapnel and holes and absence and longing. Coming to terms with Kate's erasure—not just her death, but that no one but Mozzie will so much as say her name, and even Moz is reluctant. She might as well have never existed. And coming to terms with his own remaining desire, that still, despite everything, he wants Peter. He thinks he loves him. Big, epic, Russian-novel, taking-a-bullet-for-him love. And Neal hates that about himself at the same time as it's the only thing that gets him out of bed most mornings. 

Peter, of course, remains oblivious. Peter is solid and reliable and, if Neal's prepared to admit it, slightly lacking in imagination. He still treats Neal like a puppy with no impulse control. If only he knew. Neal's lost count of the number of times he's thought about declaring himself, to find out once and for all how Peter would react. To see the expression on his face at the exact instant Neal's meaning registers. 

Stakeouts are the worst. Hours of sitting there, biting his tongue, filling his mouth with other words—art talk and anecdotes—just so he won't say _I love you,_ or _Take me home; you can do anything you want to me._

He doesn't say it. He won't. Because nothing's changed between them since that day on the tarmac. Peter's married, he's straight. And Neal doesn't want to make things awkward between them. He doesn't want Peter's pity.

 

*

 

Falling for Elizabeth is an entirely different experience. It happens softly, like being covered with snow, flake by flake on his skin. At first he thinks she's perfect, and his feelings are a natural response. She's a queen, wise and good, and he her faithful knight. He'll do anything she asks.

But the further he falls, the more he sees her true self, its ruthlessness, its darkness. She has a temper, cold and implacable. When she wants something, she doesn't always remember to count the cost, and sometimes that cost is Neal—his safety or Peter's regard of him. What scares him is that he wants to sacrifice himself for her, to earn her gratitude. It makes her the most dangerous person in his world, and that's when he really knows it's love.

 

*

 

So he's Peter's renovation project, and Elizabeth's contingency plan when she needs one, and at times he resents both roles, but even at his most rebellious, he wouldn't have it any other way. He won't try to change them, and there's no chance he could slot into their suburban _Home and Garden_ domesticity without breaking it into pieces; at least this way he gets to be a part of their lives. 

Mostly he has his hands full keeping everyone happy—including Moz, with his weird acquisitive whims—so he doesn't have much time to dwell on the hopeless state of his heart. 

 

*

 

Keller smashes him over the head with a Raphael, and it feels like karma. If Elizabeth weren't in danger, Neal might give in and take the beating. Let himself be pummeled senseless. He's tired of holding himself in—the anklet restricting every movement; the consuming devotion stopping him from finding real, honest love. He's tired. But he's the knight, and he can't give up as long as Elizabeth needs him. Even as Napoleon's walking stick comes slamming down across his back, knocking the breath out of him in an agonizing blow, he's plotting his next move.

Before he can make it, Peter charges in to save him, and in the end they save each other like they always do. Neal grabs Keller's gun and pulls the trigger, betraying an old promise to himself, but he does it for Elizabeth so it's okay. 

Keller bleeds on the ground as agents swarm in to arrest him and clean up the scene. In theory he's no longer a risk, but his threats still hang in the air, and Neal decides to confess, the ultimate sacrifice to ensure Elizabeth's safety and put himself out of the picture. 

Maybe if he doesn't see Peter every day, if he's not at Elizabeth's beck and call, maybe then he can get over them. Make his own life. Start again, within the confines of a prison cell. 

They'll be all right without him. They managed for years before he came along.

The next morning he shows up at work with his confession burning on his tongue—a _full_ confession. He's going to tell Peter everything, all of this, trace it right back to the airstrip and the tarmac and _You said goodbye to everyone but me._ He'll take the pity, the rejection, and carry them with him. He figures it'll be something to think about at night, alone in his cell, something besides cheap over-starched sheets and bad food and the endless, endless days. At least this way he won't be haunted by _What if?_ The faint ghost of a chance that Peter might have said yes, if only Neal had asked.

Keller steals his confession too. Neal really hates Keller.

 

*

 

Once stolen, the confession's in the wind. Neal could forge a new one—he is a world-class forger—but the opportunity doesn't arise, and he loses the impetus somewhere over the ocean between New York and Cape Verde, sunlight spilling through the plane window, gilding everything. 

In their tropical paradise, Neal builds a miniature Manhattan, meticulously reproducing the home he's lost, and sets it out on the beach for Maya, who looks a little like Elizabeth, and whose blend of skepticism and tolerant amusement reminds him of Peter in the early days, back when they first started working together. A perfect model of Manhattan, weeks of work, but it's devoid of people and what matters about New York isn't the skyline. 

The waves rake the buildings away a few hours later, tumbling them down, and Neal says a silent and final goodbye.

He and Maya sleep together, and it's good, it feels easy and right, maybe he can finally start fresh. Maybe he just needed a change of scenery. He loved Peter and Elizabeth, but that chapter of his life is closed. There's no point dwelling on it. For about half an hour, he gives real credence to the idea that he's moved on. 

Then the pager, and Peter's voice down the line, and Neal's old longing surfaces one last time. "It's good to hear your voice."

And then it's over. He throws the phone into the sea, and it's still over. His ankle is bare, there's a beautiful woman in his bed, and he feels clean and free. It really is over.

 

*

 

Peter comes running up the stairs and hugs him, says, "It's damned good to see you," and it's still over. Neal tenses, waiting for a rush of desire that never comes. It's just Peter, broad-shouldered, warm and familiar, and Neal loves him as a friend. They're friends. Something's broken loose in Neal and flown away. All that's left is debris rattling around his ribcage, loss and relief, and a faint restless itch at the base of his skull. This is what real freedom feels like. It's going to take a while to get used to it.

It's this freedom that reconciles him to the anklet. If he's no longer burdened with unrequited love, well, why not Manhattan? He knows the place well, has friends there. He can serve out the rest of his damned sentence and clean his slate. He can do whatever he wants. There'll be other Mayas, other possibilities. Now his heart is empty, anything seems possible, and hell, Peter's so pleased to have engineered the deal, it would be churlish to remind either of them how close Neal came to commutation. 

Let Mozzie voice the objections. Neal will accede. He meant it when he said he didn't want to run.

 

*

 

New York is noisy, crowded with exhaust and the rough edges of humanity. Peter's in the Cave. June is welcoming. Elizabeth is coolly polite. 

Neal shaves off his beard and plays the game of Being Neal Caffrey until it starts to feel natural. Until he doesn't have to think, _What would the old Neal say?_ He feels good, better than ever. He and Peter are partners. Elizabeth starts to bestow smiles on him again. His sentence inches toward its conclusion.

An invisible snowflake lands on his skin, then another and another. 

Somewhere high, high above, inevitable as fate, a meteor burns through the mesosphere, trailing hope and yearning, aiming squarely for his chest.

 

END


End file.
